


Let Him Be Kind

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_drizzle, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, HP Drizzle Fest 2020, Kid Fic, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Illness, Pining Draco Malfoy, Unspeakable Harry Potter, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 06:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26468686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A ghost is haunting the halls of Malfoy Manor, wailing at all hours of the day. Unfortunately for Draco, the only person to happily offer their ghost-be-gone services was none other than Harry Potter.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 150
Collections: HP Drizzle Fest 2020





	Let Him Be Kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MotherBooker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherBooker/gifts).



> Thank you so much to my beta Kai for essentially holding my hand throughout the entire writing process and all the galaxy brain suggestions. Absolute legend.
> 
> Hi MotherBooker! I immediately fell in love with your prompt and had to try my hand at it. I hope you'll enjoy it!

“Well, you look terrible,” Pansy says within five seconds of her head popping in the floo.

“Lovely of you to mention,” Draco mumbles. Not even his thickest concealer was going to mask the sheer exhaustion on his face and deep eyebags from the lack of sleep over the course of the last few weeks.

He rubs his hand absentmindedly over his chest as the nervousness he’s feeling spikes.It’s frustrating, the way he feels uptight and paranoid for no reason.

Draco could appreciate that the restrictions that Wizengamot handed down to him were lenient. Perhaps _too_ lenient if he were completely honest. Still, he had been forced to work with the Aurors to scour the whole Manor for traces of dark magic,removing several high value heirlooms for eradication, study, or war reparations. There were so many buried within attics, dungeons and every possible corner of the Manor that the Ministry finally gave up, deeming the house technically dark Magic-free and leaving Draco alone in his rapidly crumbling childhood home. The ghost is now just another problem tossed on top of the millions of other little things that was threatening to bury him alive.

He’s tried, of course he’s fucking tried. He’s up all night researching silencing spells, inheritance rites, ghost management, anything he could grab from his father’s library. Still, nothing was able to block out the mournful, unconsolable screeching coming from the resident ghost on a nightly basis. It was as if the Manor itself was wailing along with it, reverberating its pain along its floors and walls.

He thought about sleeping outside in a tent at one point. Then his pride took over, and Draco couldn’t bring himself to sleep outside of his own fucking house like some mangy crup. So while he has his pride intact, his sleeping schedule is nonexistent. He barely keeps himself awake during his weekly floo calls with Pansy.

“It’s the ghost. Again. Can’t sleep, can’t work, can barely think ” he says, eyes closing. It’s the first time in days that he’s gotten a moment alone to himself, and of course Pansy had to pop in, refusing to take no for an answer.

Draco can feel Pansy’s stare burning a hole in him and the sensation making his skin crawl. He turns to look out the window at the storm raging outside, the deluge blurring the windows.

“I know someone who can help with that.”

Draco hates how easily she says it, how _obvious_ and _simple_ this all must seem to her. “Really now, since _I’ve_ been having a delightful time trying to find anyone who would even answer the floo knowing the call came from Malfoy Manor.”

“He’s great,” Pansy brightly assures, before settling on a smirk. “Potter’s always had such a strange relationship with Death, hasn’t he?”

“Absolutely not,” Draco snaps, sitting up to give Pansy a deep glare. “I’ll die of sleep deprivation before I let Potter into my house.” He pauses and narrows his eyes. “And since when are you so chummy with him that he’d listen to _you_?”

Pansy flips her hair over her shoulder with her signature ‘tch’. “Since eighth year. That you adamantly refused to attend despite the Wizengamot telling you they’d lighten the house arrest terms so you could finish your studies there. So good on you for that.”

“And spend a whole year being hexed to oblivion by everyone there? I’m not as suicidal as you are.” 

Pansy shrugs. “It only lasted for a little over two weeks before everyone got bored,” she says airily, though not denying that hexing did take place. She somehow managed to make friends with nearly the entire eighth year class by the end of the year, and subsequently has connections all over the Ministry and the greater part of Wizarding London. She is the only reason Draco managed to land his private potioneer contractor position with the Ministry.

Draco crosses his arms, glowering into the fireplace. “In any case, I’m not letting Potter into my house. Completely out of the question.”

“Oh, come off it—"

“Don’t start with me, Pansy. I mean it.”

Pansy blinks at him. Slowly. Like she used to do when she thought Draco was being purposefully petulant. “You do know it’s your best bet, right? I doubt anyone is wild about the idea of crossing your path, like it or not.”

Draco huffs, “And you’re saying he would be? We haven’t gotten on well in the past. it’s useless.”

Pansy stares at him, before sighing. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

* * *

As he guessed (and should have prepared for), Pansy never gave him the chance to mull it over, as the next day he receives a floo call from none other than Harry Potter.

He grits his teeth. His heart is picking up speed again..

It’s not as if he hates Potter, not in the way he used to. That instinctive, simmering, nearly gleeful way he did long ago. There was so much on his plate now, too much to process, and Draco simply hadn’t enough space in his head to spare more than a passing snide thought about Potter. It didn’t mean that Draco didn’t find him singularly, excruciatingly annoying, though.

Still, he rakes a hand through his hair to make himself look less like hell had warmed over, though he knows it’s futile. “Potter, to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?” He winces at just how awful his voice sounds so early in the day.

To his chagrin, Potter only grins back, “’lo, Malfoy. Heard you got a ghost problem.”

Draco nods in assent. “I am going to kill Pansy.”

Harry hums out a low thoughtful tone. “Not the smartest thing to say in front of a Ministry employee, now, is it?”

“It’s not like you’re an Auror,” Draco sniffs.

Draco never understood the whole picture of that little fiasco. The Prophet had spent nearly a full month blasting the front page with the fact that despite having been granted a position with the Aurors immediately after graduating from Hogwarts, Potter didn’t join them in the end. Instead, he had switched gears and opted for Unspeakable training. Op-eds and letters from the public were published daily in the Prophet bemoaning Potter's wasted potential and that the Ministry was not doing enough to protect the Wizarding citizenry. As if Potter was the sole reason British wizarding society was still intact.

Harry pauses, then seemingly gets over it. “Touche. I’ll just let Pansy know she should watch out for any curses. Otherwise, you’d have two ghosts haunting you. Double the problems.”

“Not funny,” Draco hisses.

Potter only grins, badly trying to tamper down a laugh, “Okay, okay, I get it, no jokes. I am just offering my ghost-be-gone services, if you want them.”

“What, is this some form of charity? Do you feel _sorry_ for me?” Draco hisses.

Potter shakes his head. “Not at all, I just heard that a friend of a friend is having a hard time and I wanted to help,” Potter explains simply, as if that’s all there is to it (stupid, naïve Potter). That angers Draco even further. Potter’s hero-complex never really went away, did it?

The childish, jealous part of him pouts over the fact that Pansy was _his_ friend first.

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you ver—”

The sound of glass shattering and an otherworldly screech pierces the air, and Draco flinches, ducking his head slightly.

Potter winces in the floo and looks back up at Draco expectantly.

Draco coughs into his fist, “As I have said, I’m fine—”

“I’d bet.”

“Potter!” Draco snaps.

Potter shrugs. “Ok, fine. But seriously, Malfoy, if you do need the help, floo me. Or Pansy, if it’s too embarrassing to ask me directly.”

And with that, Potter vanishes in a blaze of green and the fire returns to a flickering, burning red. Draco leans back against the chaise and closes his eyes. It will be hard, but he is going to get through this _without_ Potter’s input.

* * *

Draco held out admirably, he thought. Another three days of running on essentially no sleep, before he couldn’t bear the rain or the ghost threatening to steal his sanity.

He did his best to seem nonchalant as he wrote a stiffly polite letter explaining his circumstances to Potter, cleaning up the parchment of ink blots spilled by his shaking hand and sealing it with the Malfoy family crest before finally sending it off via owl. He expects a reply by next week, though he’s not particularly looking forward to it.

In proper Potter fashion, the Unspeakable shows up in his floo two hours later. He was completely unaware of proper house-call etiquette, though Draco should have expected that.

Draco rubs a hand across his face, feeling more exhausted than ever.

Potter’s wearing a garish outfit; some old blue muggle trousers and a lumpy, pilling sweater.

“Hey, long time no see,” Potter cheekily greets.

Draco frowns deeper. Back at school, just his glaring was enough to set Potter off, and Draco feels like something has changed without him knowing.

He absolutely _hates_ that feeling.

Potter grins even wider. “Pan told me you’d probably be all snippy and unwelcoming... said not to take it to heart.”

Draco doesn’t hold back a disgusted grimace, feeling off-kilter from the knowledge that Potter was apparently close enough to Pansy to give her such a simpering nickname. In any sane reality he can imagine, she would have decked Potter for it. How much went on at Hogwarts last year that he wasn’t privy to?

“If you’re quite finished, I’d like you to stop grinning like a loon and actually _help_.” Draco sniffs, before turning sharply and striding quickly across the grand foyer and taking the stairs up to the second floor.

“On the case, Malfoy,” Potter calls out, his steps quickening behind Draco as he tries to match his pace.

Draco leads him through the house. It occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know where the ghost is coming from or if it’s stuck in one place. When he looks back to check on Potter, the other man is mumbling under his breath and waving his wand from side to side. Draco can’t make out what he’s saying.

They pass through the main hallway of the manor on their way to the east wing, and Draco opens door after door for Potter to inspect each room. It feels like giving the Aurors a tour all over again, and Draco’s skin crawls at the memories of piercing stares at his back. It was as if they were all expecting him to whip around and hex them at any moment.

Potter stops. Draco stills, waiting for Potter to explain himself.

Then, he feels it.

It reverberates in his chest, and Draco is made acutely aware of his own heart thudding away at the same rate, the blood rushing in his ears. Something’s responding to Potter’s incantation. Draco looks back at Potter, who nods. He knows, for whatever reason, that their pulses are in sync: an off-kilter, syncopated beat that makes Draco’s palms sweat. Potter raises his wand higher.

“Hello, is someone there?” Potter calls out, making a sweeping motion with his wand. 

Nothing happens, but Draco’s heart is still hammering away, banging right up against his ribcage, insistent and fearful. Something out there is resisting Potter’s magic, testy and rankled, and flaring of its ire lashes out in quick waves, fighting back. Potter uses his free hand to grab Draco’s arm. In any other scenario, Draco would have slapped the offending hand away, but he lets Potter cling onto him, feeling his pulse as they both peer into the darkness, their combined magic keeping up with the ghost’s sporadic bursts of energy.

Draco leans to hiss, “Potter, what are we dealing wit--—”

Draco doesn’t get to finish his question. A gust of wind blasts into their faces, coming from the side lounge. The doors bang open and Potter yanks Draco into the room, ignoring Draco’s squawking protests.

“Hello?!” Potter shouts into the room, wand aloft.

A flash of light blinds them, and they quickly break apart to shield their eyes.

The air shimmers before them until a translucent little girl materializes before them. Her fists are clenched and angry tears are welling up in her eyes. She stares balefully at Potter as she slowly floats down from the ceiling to stand on the floor. She wears a plain, puritanical long-sleeved dress that comes up to her neck, immaculately clean and stiff, as if thoroughly starched. Her clothes did not suggest that she died recently, and certainly the quality did not seem befitting of a Malfoy as it was much too plain and coarse. Her hair is plaited into two tight braids behind her head, and she shakes, heaving and furious. Her eyes barely glance over to Draco before her lip curls in disgust, and she looks away.

“Oh! Hello there. It’s nice to meet you.” Harry says with a relieved smile, not at all alarmed at the way the ghost is flickering in and out of view like static, which was a clear sign of a volatile spirit. Draco has no idea how Potter could be calm at a time like this, and he takes an unconscious step back, staring warily up at the swaying chandelier above their heads. Harry drops onto one knee to keep eye level with the ghost. “My name’s Harry Potter. I’m guessing you’re a Malfoy? Your er---” His eyes flicker towards Draco, “relative was worried about you. Asked me to come see if I could do anything for you.”

The ghost doesn’t speak, and pulls away to keep a distance from Potter. She narrows her eyes even as she raises a fist to wipe away the tears.

Draco is frowning at the back of Potter’s head. He doesn't recognize this ghost from any of the family portraits. There were certainly branch families, other Malfoys that held estates all across Europe, but Draco’s never met any of them. Children dying wasn’t uncommon, even for his family; but they were all documented, recorded in commissioned paintings and public records, each one with their own place in the family crypts. He's never seen this particular girl before, and it troubled him, not knowing who she was. 

A few minutes drag on and no one is speaking. Potter’s smile falters slightly. “Um, I guess this is all quite sudden. Let me try again,” Potter banters affably. A flare of energy ripples through the room, resonating from the ghost, and Draco does his best not to show his discomfort at the pressure settling back in his chest.

Draco tilts his head towards the door. “A moment, Potter?” 

Potter looks back at the ghost and gives her a small smile before getting back up and following Malfoy out into the hallway.

“I thought you said you could help.” Draco snaps, stabbing a finger into Potter’s chest as soon as the doors closed.

Harry rolls his eyes, pushing Draco’s hand away. “Ghosts aren’t a one and done thing, Malfoy. It takes time. It’s Ghost 101: fulfill whatever is upsetting them, and you’ve already won half the battle.”

“Fantastic, we’re on a great start with that. We haven’t gotten her to say a word!”

“Malfoy,” Harry sighs. “Look. I know you’re upset, and you’ve got a perfectly good reason for it, but I’m really, honestly trying to help. You could even speed up the process yourself, honestly.”

“How?”

“Talking to her yourself.”

Draco balks. “That’s it? That’s all that the great Harry Potter, with all his infinite wisdom has to offer?”

Harry smiles, “Sorry, that’s all I got. You’re related to her. You’re _family_. That has to count for something.”

Draco closes his eyes. This..this was _impossible_. Draco wasn’t good at connecting with children, and he doesn’t see how familial ties would make it better. “She’ll barely look at me, let alone talk. I highly doubt this will end well for either of us.”

Potter shrugs. “There are some people that swear by enchantments or wards, but you run the risk of angering the spirit and making the whole thing worse.”

Draco closes his eyes for a moment. “I just want…this to be easier.” He’s spent the better part of two years alone, and doesn’t know how he’s supposed to placate this ghost that has it out for him.

“Hey, it’s not the end of the world. I’m still here.” 

Draco sighs, looking away.

Potter looks at him. “I still believe that I probably won’t get to her in the same way you would, but I can be here to help.”

Draco shakes his head. “I don’t need any of this. I really, really don’t.”

* * *

The next morning, Pansy’s head pops in the floo just as he’s about to take his afternoon tea. Draco buries his face in his hands, steepling them against his forehead to center himself for the inevitable dressing down he’s about to receive.

“Afternoon, Pansy,” he mutters to the floor, not ready to face her wrath.

“Draco,” she replies, the coldness of the last syllable nearly glacial.

One of the house-elves pops in, carefully pushing a heavy tea tray onto the table, arms trembling from the weight before he pops out of existence. He clearly did not want to stick around and Draco can’t blame him.

Draco sips his tea in silence, staring into his cup rather than into the fireplace.

“You’re avoiding me again,” Pansy sniffs, unimpressed.

“You couldn’t help but meddle, could you? Always so nosy, never giving anyone any peace.” Draco drawls.

Pansy shoots Draco a sharp, withering glare, “Despite what you think, I’m not doing this to hurt you, Draco, nor have I betrayed you. I’m _helping_ . This is called _helping_.”

“Fat lot that’s doing,” Draco snaps, “I’m still getting the same amount of sleep as before. Most Potter has done is let the ghoul rear her head and then take off.”

“Like what you do every time Potter shows his face?”

“Pansy--!”

Pansy presses her lips into a thin line before letting out a defeated sigh.

“Potter is kind, if you let him be,” she says softly. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but…”

She takes a deep breath. “He’s not terrible, he really isn’t. If it wasn’t for him, back at school I would have…” Pansy trails off before picking back up and pinning Draco with a serious gaze. “I know you feel like everything is out of your control, but you don’t have to be so upset at him. It’s okay to ask for help.”

Silence lingers between them. He feels embarrassed, frustrated and admittedly, a little helpless at how Pansy has suddenly taken Potter’s side. 

“You’ve changed,” Draco finishes, his tone implying that the conversation was over, glowering deeply at her.

Pansy levels him a frown, before her face morphs into a look of pity. It’s the worst thing she could have done.

“And you haven’t.”

* * *

  
  


Draco finds himself lying prone on the couch, half buried in parchments. He had spent the better part of the morning attempting to sort through his father’s papers, though the legalese had stopped him from making any sort of meaningful dent to the pile. He groans as he sits up, and rubs sleep from his eyes. Papers cascade off of him and onto the floor. 

He’s been taking cat naps throughout the day, trying to make up for the sleepless nights. It’s not the most comfortable of setups, but at least he hasn’t had another nightmare yet. One of the house elves pops into existence with a tea tray laden with a pot of his favorite Lady Grey brew. He opens his hand to accept the teacup, murmuring a low thanks. He lets the warmth emanating from the steam heat his face slightly before he takes a sip.

  
  


The flame in the office’s fireplace roars to life and Potter tumbles out onto the persian rug in front of it in a graceless heap. Draco grimaces at the ashes Potter scatters on the carpet as the man dusts himself off.

“Afternoon,” Draco intones, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

“Hey,” Potter gives him a small, tight grin and looks around. “And she’s…?”

Draco rests his cheek on his fist, shrugging, “Couldn’t tell you.”

Potter’s mouth quirks into a confused grimace, glancing around the room again before pointing towards the door. “Erm, then, should I just… go find her?”

Draco gets up, the rest of the papers falling off of his lap. The idea of Potter traipsing about the Manor, poking in and out of rooms that does not sit well with him.

“You are not to enter the third floor’s north wing. Or the parlor on the ground floor. Or the solarium by the kitchens--” They were his mother’s favorite haunts, and he’s only asked the house-elves to occasionally dust and mop those rooms, worried that his mother might object to anything moved.

Harry grimaces, but nods along. “Right, I’ll just...cross my fingers and hope that I don’t accidentally find them?”

“I’ll go with you,” Draco stands up, blowing past him.

“Really?” Potter asks, taken aback.

“Better than the alternative,” Draco drawls.

They walk the halls, with Potter matching Draco’s stride instead of following behind. Draco twitches when their shoulders brush, and he silently berates himself for getting jumpy over the smallest bit of human contact. Completely pathetic.

“She’s around,” Draco mutters after the familiar feeling grips his heart, and he holds out a hand to signal to Potter to stop. The tide of energy isn’t frantic as before, and merely meets him in waves, nearly melancholy in its pace. Draco lifts his head up, frowning at the ceiling. They were already on the top floor, could it mean….?

Draco walks a few meters further and throws open the balcony doors. He strides forward and stands out on the crumbling terrace to take in the view. The once stately and gleaming marble tiles were now chipped and cracked, pieces scattered at his feet. There’s a thin metal railing between two of the bay windows leading up to the rooftop, and he scales up the ladder, not checking if Potter is behind him.

He alights onto the rooftop, and turns around to look down at the rolling hills behind the estate slightly obscured by the sluggish early spring fog. There are remnants of snow on the ground, and a lingering, clammy humidity of an approaching storm. Intermittent chirps of thrushes and fieldfares in the forests nearby break up the silence. Draco closes his eyes for a moment.

This used to be a place of solace for him during the war. Whenever he was on the cusp of his breaking point, he’d steal away up here for a moment of reprieve. He always made sure not to stay long in order to prevent anyone from looking for him and finding him hidden away here, ruining his secret.

A lingering dread settles in his chest. The view that once brought him peace was now reminding him of the war, of the fear of being caught, the stench of rot, his hands trembling and clasping his wand hard as he tries to be brave, even just for a single second.

Draco turns around to find Potter speaking softly to the ghost. They’re both perched near the edge of the roof and Malfoy huffs, pulling Potter back to a safer distance. “Did you want to fall to your death? Haunt the grounds with her?”

“Didn’t know you cared so much,” Potter says, gently extricating his arm from Draco’s grip. Draco crosses his arms.

“I don’t particularly want to share an Azkaban cell with my father for offing the Savior of the Wizarding World,” Draco mutters.

To his surprise, Potter laughs, clear and bright, his eyes sparkling. Draco feels his face heating up.

“What? Was the concept of me in prison that entertaining?”

Potter shakes his head. “Just a rare experience for me. Other than Pansy, most people have somehow convinced themselves that I could cheat death any time I wanted to. Only you two keep acting like I’m two seconds away from dropping dead at any given time.”

“We’d both probably get the dementor’s kiss _without_ trial if anything happens to you. It’s just a matter of self-preservation.”

Potter nods, in the slow, accommodating way adults do to indulge children. Draco squirms nevertheless. 

He turns his attention to the ghost, now hovering near Potter’s shoulder. Did she follow him up here during the war? Or did she find it herself, drawn to it the same way he was? 

Potter looks at him, staring evenly, and Draco’s skin crawls at the attention.

_You’re related to her. You’re family. That has to count for something._

Potter’s words settle into his mind again, but he scowls and chooses to ignore it, taking another look at the world outside of the estate. 

* * *

He dreams of the ground.

He’s lying flat on his back with his breath coming up short and frantic, his pulse drumming a rhythm underneath his skin. He hears the storm rolling in and the rumble of thunder rattles his ribcage. His skull is vibrating along with it. the cracked soil underneath him is unyielding.

He tries to suck in a breath but dust fills his lungs, choking him. Shakily, he attempts to push himself up with elbows but slips. He bangs his head against the ground and a blunt pain causes him to cry out. 

So he just lays there, choking and helpless and scared. He prays that maybe this time, the storm will drown him for good.

* * *

Draco awakes with a start, gasping, his hands clutching his bedsheets.

The pressure is back on his chest, and it feels like a boulder is sitting right on top of him, threatening to crush his ribs. He has to get out of the Manor, away from the ghost and these visions. He gets up and staggers his way to the fireplace, hardly caring that he is still in his pyjamas. He scoops a handful of floo powder, tosses it into the flames. Pictures his destination and dives in headfirst into the flames.

“Draco?!”

Draco looks up to find Pansy standing in front of him. She shakes her head and drags him onto the couch next to where a startled-looking Potter is sitting.

Draco wearily looks over at the other man cradling a mug in his hands.Tries to summon any sort of protest as Potter places a gentle hand on his shoulder, but he melts into the sofa and drags a hand across his face instead.

“Something happen?”

As the fear slowly ebbs away, Draco feels his gut fill up with embarrassment and he puts off looking at the other two.

“I’ll…it’s not important.” 

He thinks to get up and go home, but the thought of being alone with his thoughts in the empty manor keeps him rooted in his seat even though Potter’s hand hasn’t left its perch.

Pansy scoffs. “Really, now? It seemed a little urgent,with you barreling through the floo like the Manor was on fire.” A pause. “The Manor isn’t on fire, is it?”

The frantic beating of his heart slows down, and he wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “It’s not. I simply had...a dream. Unusually awful.”

“He used to have nightmares every single night.” Pansy explains to Potter, and Draco would have snapped at her for needlessly divulging all his shortcomings had he not been in this state. He pulls his hand out of his face to stare up at the room’s stucco ceiling.

“I don’t...think it was _my_ dream this time.” He says slowly, trying to make sense of it all. There was the pure dread he’s incredibly too familiar with, but the scene felt...much too real to be a dream conjured up by vague memories and an overactive imagination.

“I think the ghost is trying to talk to you.” Potter offers.

“About _what_?”

Potter shrugs. “What was the dream about?”

Draco brings up the image in his head again, scowling, but dutifully recounts as much as he could while Pansy and Potter lean in to listen.

“Maybe...she’s sharing something about herself.”

“Is she trying to make sure I keel over in the process?”

Potter sighs. “Ghosts...aren’t easy to deal with. The new ghosts at Hogwarts, after the war….” Potter looks towards Pansy, who nods. “A lot of them wouldn’t talk, couldn’t talk. We tried our best to listen anyways.”

Draco looks over at Pansy, feeling stung. “ _You_ could have helped me. Why didn’t you?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t, not in the way Potter can. I was there in case they wanted someone to be angry at.” She smiles at her own little joke, but she turns away a little, worrying the ends of her sleeve with her fingers. It takes her a few seconds, but she settles into a more relaxed pose, her chin resting on her fist as she glances over at Draco.

“I wasn’t joking when I said Potter could help you, Draco. There were a lot of people that managed to move on before the year ended because of his help.”

“You helped too, Pans. Don’t sell yourself short.” Potter grins.

“And _you_ said we could form a ghost detective agency, but then you abandoned me for Unspeakable training.” Pansy shoots back, tempering her words with a grin of her own.

Something flashes in Potter’s eyes, and the smile on his face vanishes. Pansy merely rolls her eyes. “Potter, we’ve been through this, it was an insipid idea. It wouldn’t have worked.”

Pansy swivels her attention towards Draco. “And you- stop acting like you’re above help and then dive roll into my flat at an ungodly hour.”

Draco doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he nods demurely. She was right. He couldn’t run away from this any longer.

It didn’t mean he had to like it.

Draco looks at Pansy and wonders if she’s still angry about their last conversation.

Pansy shakes her head. “I don’t understand-- from what Potter’s told me, she’s just a little girl. What are _you_ so afraid of?”

“It’s not being afraid,” Draco says, though he’s unsure of it himself. “It...just feels wrong. It all feels wrong...”

He looks up at the other two, feeling small and scrutinized as he watches them frowning at him like he’s a child telling lies for attention.

“I don’t expect you to believe me.” Draco admits.

“I believe you.” 

Hurt, Draco looks up at Potter, figuring that he’s only trying to humor him; but Potter seems serious. He sends Draco a small, sympathetic smile and leans forward slightly to place a gentle hand on Draco’s arm. Draco manages a few short seconds of staring back at Potter before he has to look away, the man’s sincerity too much to handle. Too unexpected. He feels as if he’s still dreaming. When Potter pulls his hand away a few moments later, Draco is startled to find that his skin immediately misses Potter’s heat. 

“Alright then,” Draco manages out, his words sticking to his throat. “Alright.”

\--

Potter comes by again the next day. The ghost comes to the floo fireplace, much to Draco’s surprise. She spins around Potter when he steps out, curious.

Draco looks tiredly over at Potter. Last night he had returned home and went straight to bed, exhausted after the whole ordeal, but even after sleeping through well into the afternoon he was still fighting the temptation to curl up into bed again.

Draco frowns up at the ghost. Did she not know what she had wrought on him last night? She does not spare him a glance. 

“I have plenty of papers to get through today,” Draco mutters, hating how easily he sounds like his father, “so if it’s of any…”

“We’ll get out of your way, Malfoy,” Potter promises, understanding in his eyes. Draco feels like flushing all over again, and it rankles him.

It’s only after the two leave, that Draco finally turns his attention to something he’s found hidden between stacks of legal parchments.

Draco frowns at the reservation card in his hands. He carefully opens it, noting the year the ball was held was over 25 years ago, before he was born. The card itself was yellowed and frayed, the ink slightly smudged at one corner, which was likely the reason why his mother didn’t send it out to Madam Ozdemir, but Draco takes a moment to drink in the words. 

Once upon a time, his mother’s handwriting was bold yet graceful. Her favorite penchant was making swooping, rounded g’s and looping her l’s with thick lines. There was a sense of excitement in her handwriting, of preparing what must have been her first time hosting a ball by herself. Draco smiles softly down at the letters, his hands touching the card reverently. The spirit of her confidence was imbued in even the ink she chose-- a glossy bright blue that shimmered when viewed at an angle. 

Draco thinks back to the letters his mother sends him now from Belgium. The letters thin and sloping downwards across the page, much smaller than before. The unevenness of the ink, the inkblots dotting the page, as if she changed her mind about a word, hesitant, careless, empty. A ghost of who she used to be.

The card creases slightly in his hand. He should throw it out. He has to, he can’t keep every single scrap of decrepit memorabilia like this. But he misses this version of his mother. And in the moment, as he reads the invitation over and over, it’s almost as if he had her back once again.

* * *

The room is dark, the sun long having set. Draco blinks, finding himself staring up at the ceiling. He’s lying on the chaise, and not at the desk surrounded by a half-ring of opened letters. Potter and the ghost are in the next lounge over, Draco can see Potter dazzling her with the intricate fairy-light show he’s summons out of his wand.He makes them float all around her as she dances and hums to an almost tuneless song with her eyes tightly shut and her arms wide open.

Draco looks at the spectacle before him, staring into one of Potter’s fairy lights long enough to make his vision go a little fuzzy around the edges.

He lets himself watch Potter. (It’s his damn house, he’s allowed to look at Harry fucking Potter if he wants, it’s not a _crime_.) Watches as the lights dance off his glasses, the way they play off his cheeks and the edges of his lips, softening his features. Draco always thought Potter looked sharper, harder after the war. He became the Ministry’s very own war machine portrayed by the media as something akin to a demigod. But every time Potter crashes into the Manor through the floo, he’s always in his ridiculous muggle get up, all soft and casual and not strutting around with his war medals pinned onto his coat like Draco assumed he would. The Potter he sees laughing and playing with the ghost is nothing like the one in the photos with the sharp robes and stony stares plastered on the front page of the Prophet.

Here, he was…

He was….

“Malfoy?”

Malfoy starts, trying to reorient himself, but only coming up with a confused, “Buh?” in response.

“How’re you holding up?”

“Huh?”

“We came back to check up on you, and you were kind of slumped over, figured you probably needed a break, so we brought you here.”

“ _We_?”

Potter rolls his eyes, before acquising. “Ok, just me. I bear the full responsibility of dragging you here.”

“Just felt the need to rest my eyes for a bit, now that there’s the slightest bit of peace around here,” “You make a good monster wrangler, Potter, I’ll give you that,” Draco says easily.

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Potter says, his tone leaning on the side of disapproving, though belied by the small, rakish quirk on the side of his mouth. It makes him look….

Draco swallows, quickly looking away and putting an end to that particular thought. He looks up at the ornate grandfather clock by the windows, telling him it’s already half past midnight.

“There’s a spare room at the end of the hallway,” he mentions offhandedly as he gets up and shuffles towards the door, resolutely not looking at Potter.

“Malfoy—?”

“Just call a house-elf if you need anything.”

“Sure, thanks.” Potter smiles, and Draco has to look away, feeling his skin heat up with the attention.

Draco frowns, but nods curtly, unable to meet Potter’s eyes as he makes his escape back to his own room.

* * *

He’s lying on her lap, cotton against his cheek. This woman, with her soft brown hair, auburn skin and thick cotton dress is not his mother. But she holds his small hand in hers and softly hums to him as he falls asleep, the wind accompanying her song.

He raises his head slightly, but the woman shushes him, and puts a gentle hand on his head to lead him back onto her lap. “How do you feel?”

“Okay,” he whispers, watching the kingcups sway in the distance, hazy against the summer heat Dragonflies flit in and out of his periphery. He begins to close his eyes, the woman’s song lulling him to sleep. He feels safe under her care.

* * *

Draco awakens and his body immediately misses the warmth of the sun in his dreams.

He opens his eyes to glare out of the window. It’s been raining for days on end, the sound of it pelting down on the ancient roof and echoing throughout the Manor.

He grimaces as he gets up slowly.is morning routine is a haze like it has been the past few weeks, but eventually he makes his way down the steps to the dining room after freshening up. He finds Potter with a decadent, full English breakfast in front of him, the ghost sitting next to him in a chair and giggling at Potter as she kicks her feet back and forth. Her hair is different, freed from the tight braids. It’s now in a ponytail, though tied back without a hair out of place.

“Oh, Dra—Malfoy,” Potter greets, catching himself as he sheepishly waves, mouth stuffed with food. Draco sighs, sliding into the seat across from the ghost just as a house-elf pops next to him, wringing her hands.

“And what shall young Master have for breakfast?”

“Toast and coffee, thank you, Orchid.” Malfoy mumbles, and Potter frowns at that.

“Yes, Potter?”

Potter shakes his head, “No, it’s just—you look a lot thinner these days.”

“I wonder what the cause of that could be,” Draco huffs, shooting an unimpressed look at the ghost, who glares back.

Orchid pops back in, sliding a plate laden with golden, thick slices of toast along with an assortment of butter and jams onto the table. A tall, gleaming silver kettle with a long spout materializes with a delicate white china set. Malfoy sighs. He knows he’s not going to eat even a quarter of it, but it doesn’t stop his house-elves from trying their best to have him eat more.

“Make that two extra eggs, Orchid,” Malfoy says, keeping his eyes on Potter. There’s a glint of something in Potter's eyes as he raises his eyebrows slightly.Draco ignores it in favor of pouring himself some coffee.

Potter crams the last of his breakfast into his mouth, before making his way to the floo, giving Malfoy a quick wave.

“I’ll see you later, Malfoy?” Potter asks.

The cheer in the room fizzles out immediately once Potter leaves, and the ghost looks back at Draco with a disinterested glance before disappearing.

Draco lets out the breath he didn’t know he’s holding in and makes his way to the library, hoping to get a modicum of peace for once.

* * *

He finally enters the conservatory in the first week of June.

It’s been ages since he’s last been in here, the piano at the center of the room certainly could use a good wipe down and professional tuning but Draco still pulls off the sheet covering the instrument. He frowns, summoning a feather duster to brush the thick layer of dust off the keys before sitting down on the bench, not knowing what to play.

He rests his hands on the keys for a moment, before tapping out a quick overture that pops into his head from his youth, getting through several bars before he trips up and he stops, scowling at his fingers. He’s probably going to have to dig up some sheet music if he wants to play anything to the end. All of his piano prowess had been pushed out of his head over the last 10 years. Draco sighs, feeling bereft yet again. Everything he once had is slipping through his fingers, even something as simple as this.

His fingers glide over the keys and he lets the memory of the hours spent practicing the piece return to him, trying one of the lullabies from his childhood that his mother had sung to him. An old Malfoy lullaby passed down for generations.

He thinks of her as he plays. Her inscrutable countenance. Her perfume, laced with elysium dew. The way she used to push back his hair away from his forehead. Her staunch unwillingness to return to Malfoy Manor after the trials, opting instead for exile in Belgium where they owned a small townhouse.

She sends a letter per week, stiffly formal in a way that Draco still isn’t used to, asking about the renovations and weather and every so often asking for Draco to contact their supplier for her favorite tea blend. Reading her bland, listless letters is bad, but having to reply is even worse. He forces himself through it, knowing it’s the perfectly rational paranoia of the Ministry seizing their mail and less of genuine apathy. 

He knows. Knows that she had her reasons, her own traumas that he couldn’t fix for her, but it felt…like she was abandoning him, though that was ridiculous. At 21, he shouldn’t need a parent to watch over him.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.

And now he’s here alone, letting the ghost dictate his life and Potter traipse in and out of the Manor as he pleases.

Draco lifts his head up, only to find the ghost by the doorway. She looks down, eyes widening at being spotted, and vanishes in a hurry. For the moment, he doesn’t think too much about it.

Until he hears it. The melody he played that afternoon.

Everywhere.

In the wind chimes, echoing down the hallways, and even in the grandfather clock when the hour struck.

As the rain falls, he swears he hears a complementary rhythm drumming on the window panes.

“Did you like it?” He asks out loud one afternoon, the sun slanting in through the windows, a half-read book on his lap, and fresh orchids decorating the room.

The faint ringing of a bell from another room is his only reply, and he smiles, settling back into his reading.

* * *

Draco hears whispering, followed by the shrill giggling he’s come to associate with the little gremlin, followed by Potter’s annoyed sigh.

“And what’s going on in here?” Draco starts, before staring aghast at the ugliest dress robes he’s ever seen.

“Potter!” Draco shouts, horrified. “Were you cursed?”

“Ok look, I kind of maybe forgot that I had an official Ministry charity ball to go to, and I just—” Potter flaps his arms uselessly, frustrated. “This was at the bottom of my trunk.”

“So you did this to yourself,” Draco squints. “Possibly even worse than being cursed.”

“Look, unless you want to help—"

“Borrow one of mine.” Draco submits. They were almost of the same height, although Potter was bulkier than him, especially with those broad shoulders. His gaze rests on them for a few seconds, resisting the urge to reach out and feel them under his fingertips.

Potter flounders, chuckling nervously. “Oh, but I really can’t, I--”

“It’s putting on a robe, I didn’t ask you to marry it.” Draco snaps, as he grips Potter’s arm and wrenches him out of the room, ignoring his yelp as he drags Potter into his own chambers and flinging him forward to face his ceiling-to-floor length mirror.

“Stay there,” he imperiously commands, as he opens his own expansive encoignure in the other corner, using his wand to flick through his collection, to put the ‘maybes’ pile on the bed.

He stops at one particular buried halfway into his closet, smoothing his hand over it as he admires the rich sapphire color. Bright, but not eyesearingly so.

Draco hands it over to Potter, enjoying the sight of Potter’s eyes widening just from feeling the fabric against his hands. 

“Go on.” he commands.

Potter rolls his eyes but dutifully raises it over his head to put it on. Draco steps forward, muttering spells under his breath to adjust the robe to accommodate Potter's wider shoulders, then using his hands to tug the fabric and set it in place. He smooths the fabric with his hands down Potter’s chest absentmindedly before realizing what he’s doing. He hastily steps back, crossing his arms as he fights down a red flush creeping up his neck.

“Right, then. I think you’re all set. You won’t cause some ancient matron to faint into a rose bush, at the very least.”

“Thanks Malfoy,” Potter breathes, a small, gentle smile on his face. He’s so close, much too close. “Don’t think I’ve ever worn robes as nice as this one.”

“I should hope not,” Malfoy sniffs, “that was custom-made from the finest Atelier in Paris.”

Potter rolls his eyes, but his eyes are soft, set with a grateful look that Draco has to look away from. A wave of longing unfurls in his heart once he gets a full view of Potter in his new robes. He has to close his eyes to center himself.

The fireplace flares green, and Draco is grateful for the distraction.

“There you are, Potter! Honestly, I should have known you’d hole up here--” Pansy grouses. Her eyes were rimmed with mascara and her lips painted an inky black, looking ready to visit a graveyard rather than attend a ball. She raises her eyebrows slightly at Potter’s outfit, and Draco inwardly swears. Shit, if he knew Pansy was going to the same ball, he wouldn’t have pulled out this particular robe, the one she absolutely knew he favored. Her eyes flicker up towards Draco, giving him a horribly smug little smile before swiveling her attention back on Potter.

“Well!” She starts, appraising her date, “that’s a sight better than this morning, at least, but we’re running out of time. Are you ready?”

Draco turns back to Potter.“Pansy demanded that I be her date. Ambushed me at the Ministry elevators and everything. I’m just lucky she didn’t drop down to one knee.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, I’m doing you a favor of not having to deal with your billions of suitors and you know it,” Pansy sniffs, though Draco inwardly wouldn’t have put it past Pansy to make the showiest outlandish display of showing up at the ball with Potter as her date.

“Don’t worry Draco, I’ll bring him back in one piece,” she coos, winking at him as Harry nervously looks back and forth from her and Draco. “Wait, what?” he asks.

“Potter! Move it!” Pansy snaps, and the man hurries towards the fireplace lest he gets yelled at again.

Draco sighs.

He’s not interested in Potter. 

He’s just...lonely. He’s adult enough to admit that. It _didn’t_ mean he should act on it. It would be pointless, nothing would come out of trying to initiate anything with Potter. Besides, Potter he could have anyone he wanted.He wouldn’t want Draco. Of course not. 

Why would he?

* * *

“What’s in those forests, anyways?”

Draco peers up from his book, watching Potter as he stares out at the trees standing vigil almost a kilometer away.

“Nothing much. Nothing magical growing there, no good potion ingredients, the animals have all but fled since—” Draco stops, then falls silent.

“It looks nice,” Potter compliments, gently steering the conversation back to safer waters.

Draco blinks. Remembering summers when Vince,Gregory and Theo used to visit and they’d spend hours exploring those woods, though the mystery and allure of exploring its depths seemed to weaken year after year. There were no unicorns or legendary dragons to be found in there. Only birdsong and moss and a bright trickle of a stream that sometimes had frogs or minnows swimming in it.

The ghost looks out the window as well, captivated.

Potter snaps his own book shut, eyes bright as he turns towards Draco.

“How about a quick jaunt out?”

* * *

“I don’t know why you’ve insisted on a picnic, seeing as we’ve just ate” Draco drawls, but nonetheless swishes his wand to levitate an overladen wicker picnic basket behind him, the house elves stuffing as much as they possibly could in it.

Potter stares at him with an amused look. “You’re wearing shorts.”

Draco scoffs, “You are too!”

“I know, but like—” Potter grins, “never imagined you would even own a pair.”

Draco feels his face heating up, most likely in the most unseemly blotchy way. “Well I certainly wasn’t going to traipse around the woods getting grass scuff marks when I can very well prevent it.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that.” Potter waves him off with an eye roll and shoots him a playful grin.

There’s a small stream they stumble upon in the woods, and the girl kneels beside it, dipping her ghostly hand through and laughing as the fish swim through it, their shapes softened as they pass through her. careful of the water, She lifts her dress slightly enough for her to slip barefoot in the water.

Draco breathes in deep. A mossy scent is the first thing he smells, but it gives way to the earthiness of loam and damp soil.

They venture further into the forest. The woods seemed to have survived the worst of the war without much damage to the fauna. Wild forget-me-nots and honeysuckle dot along the river banks, and Harry sits under a tree, patiently letting the ghost pull a few flowers up to decorate his hair.

The ghost places her hand on an old oak tree until the branches softly shake, leaves falling onto the forest floor to fashion a small bedding of foliage for them to take a midafternoon nap.

“We have blankets, you know,” Draco grimaces, affronted as Potter flops onto the leaves with a delighted _whump_.

“Malfoy? Shut it and join us.”

Draco reels back slightly. He wants to reject Potter’s offer. He _should_ reject his offer. But he’s weak. He slowly kneels next to Potter but not knowing how to proceed. The leaves didn’t seem enough for two grown men to lay on while maintaining a respectable distance, and he shifts about, trying to make sure he’s not too close to scare off Potter. 

He closes his eyes, the crunch of leaves next to his ear as he hears Potter shift slightly next to him, and he takes a deep breath. Now up close, he can get a faint whiff of Potter’s aftershave, musky and deep, feeling the wind blowing gently over his face.

It’s warm…here, lying centimeters away from Potter, staring at his face, while Potter stares back, an achingly genuine, slow grin blooming on his face. Draco’s previous mantra to look away evaporates at Potter’s soft and open expression, and he swallows thickly, fists wrapping around some blades of grass unconsciously. He can control himself, bar the staring. He’s careful not to do anything stupid, like touch Potter’s hand or his face or his anything. He’s also not staring at the way the light streaming through the tree dapples onto Potter’s skin, the shadows flitting across gauzy and ephemeral. Tries his absolute damndest not to think of unnecessary and blatantly untrue modifiers like ‘devastating’ and ‘divine’ to describe Potter.

He falls asleep like that, and he dreams of a soft hand in his hair and the sounds of crickets in the distance.

* * *

Of course, the idyllic atmosphere just had to be ruined in the end. They barely got the slightest warning before the skies opened up and unleashed a torrent of late summer rain on them, stinging their skin with its velocity. There was no use casting a drying or even a quick protection spell when they were so wet already, so there’s little left to do but race for shelter back at the manor.

The ghost seems horribly amused at the circumstances, watching the two heaving for air and grumbling about their clothes sticking uncomfortably to their skin.

Potter shakes his head like a crup, letting the droplets fly everywhere. Draco snaps his fingers for Peony to pop in and hand him two towels, pitching one at Potter’s face.

“Please, save my house elves the agony of having to clean up after you, Potter.”

“Sorry in advance,” Potter laughs, sending a sheepish smile at Peony.

“No apologies!” Peony squeaks. “Masters must be hungry after such a long day! Peony will prepare dinner at once!”

She pops out of view, and Harry looks over at Draco, the smile slipping off his face as he stares at him.

“What?” Draco feels his face heat up. He knows he doesn’t look his best, sopping wet like this, and the scrutiny is getting to him. He looks toward the ghost, who tilts her head and gives him a smile before disappearing through the wall.

Potter shakes his head. “No, I just…oh, fuck it.”

Potter takes two long strides to close the distance between them, placing a hand on Draco’s forearm as his eyes flicker from Draco’s eyes to his lips. Draco gasps softly. 

“If you don’t want this, tell me n--”

Draco doesn’t wait for him to finish his sentence and closes the small distance between them to claim Potter’s lips, letting himself taste the rain as he flicks his tongue out, asking for entry. Potter hastily obliges and Draco shivers as he feels a warm, wet tongue flicking against his. Thankfully it’s just as desperate as his own. 

Potter grips Draco’s arms as he leans further and further into him, deepening the kiss, but Draco eventually pulls away, pecking the side of Potter’s cheek as an apology. 

“Dinner first,” he croaks out, grinning at Potter’s addled, confused face. “We can pick this up later.”

* * *

The world is a blur.

Draco screws up his courage, and downs the rest of the potion, the concoction grainy and bitter across his tongue. He coughs, the medicine coating his throat and as he tries to place the bottle back. But he misses the table and the potion bottle comes shattering onto the ground.

“Stupid child.” A woman hisses, the glass vanishing away before Draco has the chance to apologize.

He shudders, feeling clammy even though he was burning up earlier and buries his head back into the covers.

“This has gone on for weeks, there’s no use in prolonging the inevitable,” a man loudly pronounces.

“We could try for a more aggressive dosage….”

“She hasn’t been responding to any of the last few potions, clearly there’s no need to continue this farce!”

He squeezes his eyes shut and brings his hands up to block out their voices. He must sleep so he can get better.

He will take all the potions his uncles and aunts give to him.

He will listen to his uncles and aunts no matter what.

He will be good, for Mother.

* * *

Draco feels something jab his stomach, and he gasps, waking up to find himself laying on the chaise lounge in the drawing room, with a pale and frightened Potter next to him.

Potter grabs a fistful of Draco’s sleeve, eyes watery. “Is that...were those...her memories?”

Draco slowly nods. “You dreamt about it just now, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know…” Potter whispers out, “they were that bad.”

Draco shakes his head, taking a deep breath as he slides away from Harry.

“My father…. never laid a hand on me.” Draco starts. “But I had to work for his attention, I had to prove myself worthy of his love.”

Draco pauses, feeling the truth crawl out of him, damning and sharp. “And most of the time, I couldn’t.”

“Dr—Malfoy…” Potter starts, but Draco raises his hand to silence him.

“If I was sick, the way she was, it would no doubt have set my father off,” Draco implies.

Potter looks hurt, stricken at even the implication that a parent could ever fault their child for being sick, but Draco refuses to feel as if he’s in the wrong.

“Potter-“

“I know. I get it.”

“You? Knowing what it’s like to—"

“I know what it’s like to be an unwanted child.” Potter looks up at him, a flash of anger in his eyes before it evaporates, replaced by exhaustion as he slumps back against the chair.

Malfoy doesn’t say anything to that. It didn’t sound like a lie, not with the way Potter reacted, defensive and pained.

Hands tightening into fists, Malfoy continues, “It’s just…how we Malfoys grew up, Potter, we had responsibilities to uphold. Whether they’re important or not in the eyes of others is irrelevant, when it’s the children who have to follow them to the end. Malfoys value children, not childhood.”

Potter’s eyes roam back on Draco’s face. “And you? Did you ever….”

“Do not feel sorry for me,” Draco snaps. Nothing rankles him more than pity.

“I’m not, I just—“ Potter heaves a sigh, placing a hand in the middle of Draco’s back. “I never…knew what my parents were like. And I used to wonder, what it would be like…”

“Not everyone had a mother that died loving her child so fiercely it warded off the magic of one of the most powerful wizards in history.”

Harry looks up at Draco, weary but determined, and Draco is surprised at how much he’s missed _this_ Potter. This grand, hell hath no fury, god- _forbid_ -you-get-in-his-way Potter.

“I never asked her to. I never even--” Potter chokes on his words, and looks away. “Sometimes I wonder if she should have survived instead of me.”

Draco grips Potter’s arms, shaking him slightly. “She did what she did. And now you have to suffer through being alive, whether you like it or not. Don’t throw yourself a pity party for surviving.” The words sting even as he says them out loud, and he desperately looks at Potter, silently begging him to understand.

Potter freezes. “I didn’t, I’m not-- I just…” he mumbles, tripping over words. Draco pulls him against his chest.

“I know,” he murmurs back. “I know.”

* * *

He knows where he is: at the backdoor of the Malfoy Manor estate, the mudroom leading into the kitchens.

The woman from before is kneeling in front of him, eyes red-rimmed and heavy, “Juniper. Juniper. _Juniper_. My dove. You must listen to your aunts and uncles and be a good girl. You must be brave for me.” Her hands tighten around Draco’s wrists as she shakes him desperately, forcing him to look at her. “We’ll take you home soon. You just have to stay for a few weeks, then we’ll go home, and it will be just Papa, Mama, and you. No more healers, no more aurors, are you listening to me? But you have to be brave first.”

“No, no,” he begs, as he tries to follow her when she rises to her feet. Terror seizes his heart as the door behind her opens to torrential rain, and she pulls back, wrapping herself in her threadbare coat and stepping into the storm.

He knows he will never see her again.

He knows he will never go home again.

“Mama, Mama, Mama, MAMA!” he chants, vision blurring, as he’s being pulled back by hundreds and thousands of hands dragging him deeper into the Manor.

* * *

Draco wakes, finding the ghost hovering next to him. She looks at him warily, her fingers interlocked as she shrinks back. He sits up and looks up at her, swallowing thickly.

“...Juniper?”

She flinches.

_Names have power_. His father’s words echo in his head unbidden, and he slowly shuffles his way over to the edge of the sofa. “Juniper,” he tries again, but she darts out the room.

“Juniper!”

Potter rises next to him and looks over at Draco, worry evident in his eyes.

“Do you think…?”

Draco turns his head, looking out into the empty, dark hallway, “Most likely.”

Potter nods, “I’m going to look for her.”

* * *

After an hour they reconvene in the dining room. “I can feel her,” Harry grimaces.“You feel her too, right?”

Draco nods, fisting his shirt, feeling the scrape of fear lash against his heart.

“I just don’t understand what’s going on.” Harry admits, his hand flying up to grip at his ratty t-shirt and wincing from the same pain in his chest, sweat beading on his forehead. “Has it always been this bad?” he gasps, shooting Draco a horrified look.

Draco shakes his head, “never this bad, we’ve got to find her, she must be—”

A harrowing screech cuts him off, sending cold shivers through his body. But he grits his teeth, doing his best to channel that fear into action. “Potter! Move it!” Draco doesn’t wait for Potter to catch up as he turns and starts running towards the foyer, heart thudding.

“Juniper? Juniper?!” Potter calls out.

But the wailing seems to increase, and splinters start bouncing off the walls and seemingly coming from all directions, fractured, and broken, as if there were more and more voices multiplying. 

Draco grabs at Potter’s hand, picking up just how frantic his heartbeat is. “Not the time to lose your head, Potter!”

They creep over towards the parlor, looking in. The room seemed to be spinning, with shards of glass whirling around the room. The two quickly pull up shields, squinting to see the ghost in the middle of it all, her spectral form spiking and glowing brightly as she loses herself to her own grief.

“Juniper! It’s just us! It’s okay!” Potter yells into the storm.

Draco steps forward, his hands shaking as he feels the whipstorm of the battering winds, and braces himself as he feels the first cuts of the glass skip across his skin.

“See the sunset….” he sings, his voice stilted and soft, the way his mother did, the way her mother did.

“The day is ending….”

“Draco?!” Potter watches him, mouth agape, before wordlessly erecting another shield to deflect another chunk of debris from slamming into them. “What are you doing, is it an incantation—”

Draco shoots Potter a stifling glare that tempers into determination as he looks forward again, squinting slightly up towards the light.

“Let that yawn out, there’s no pretending….”

The screams are tapering off, replaced by heaving sobs as the ghost bends over and covers her face in her hands.

Potter surges forward, claiming Draco’s hand in his. Draco shivers, the thrum of Potter’s magic coursing through him.

“I will hold you, and protect you….”

Draco is projecting his voice over the storm and he feels Juniper’s anger subsiding. He walks, step by step, with Potter matching his gait. 

“So let love warm you, ‘til the morning….”

She falls just as the storm abates. The room shudders for a moment- then debris from around the room comes crashing down with her.

“Is she…?”

Potter mumbles an arcane spell, casts the detection spell again and gently holds Draco’s hand in his. Immediately, his heart begins to pang, and Draco never thought he’d be so relieved despite that uncomfortable anxiousness roiling inside of him.

“She’s…. resting. I think.” Potter sighs, flicking his wand to cancel the spell.

“What do we…?”

“Stay, I suppose.” Potter looks over at Draco, before finding a place to sit on the floor, holding out a hand to invite Draco to sit next to him.

They huddle together on the floor, taking solace in each other’s breath and their shaking hands.

It’s enough, for now.

* * *

Draco awakes to the sound of wind.

He opens his eyes, finding that he’s curled up on the floor, with Potter in front of him, snoring softly with his mouth slack, curled up on his side. Between the two of them is Juniper, her ghostly form washed out and grey, but otherwise intact, flickering in and out of view.

He raises his head, supporting himself on his elbows to further inspect the room. The half-ring of bay windows are all blown out, the glass shards ringing around them a safe distance away, as if Potter’s protection wards from last night had also taken account for physical debris. High backed chairs and the once-imposing cherry oak table were splintered, snapped and soaked through. Some were tossed onto their sides or leaning on broken legs, lying scattered across the room.

Draco winces, the pain in his right shoulder racing through his system as he groans. He must have twisted it in some fashion during the night on the cold hard floor.ut he breathes a sigh of relief as he looks back at Juniper and Harry- both exhausted but safe.

He locates his wand halfway across the room. He manages to summon it back into his hand with little effort and takes a moment to grip it, the feeling of it in his hand strangely foreign.

The sky is grey and muddled, the clouds heavy with the threat of rain.The torn curtains billow softly, gauzy and stained.

Draco hears a small gasp behind him, and he looks back to find Juniper awake, whipping around to take in all the damage, her eyes widening as she looks up at Draco.

Draco shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

She begins to sob, tears welling up in her eyes, and Draco slaps the ground with his hand to get her attention, making her jump slightly.

“It doesn’t. Matter.” Draco pins the ghost with an even stare although he can feel his voice shaking. Juniper looks up at him before resting her head onto his chest, hiding her face and continues to cry.

Because it doesn’t. Nothing in this godforsaken house mattered, Draco thought fiercely. There were centuries worth of atrocities committed here, burned into the very walls, seeped into the floors, as old as the stonework and bedrock. Juniper wasn't the only one wronged by their family and their archaic, dogmatic rules; his heart burned just thinking about it. He looks at the worn out little girl, shifting in and out of view as her shoulders heave with grief.

“Your mother...she tried her best. She tried her absolute best. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to help you. It wasn’t enough to save you. But she loved you just the same.” Draco fiercely spits out, tears welling up in his own eyes, burning their way down his face. He thinks of the last time he saw his own mother, gaunt and expressionless. Her husband gone, her family torn asunder, and she chose exile without a second glance back at her son.

But none of that mattered anymore. In front of him was a little girl who’s never had the chance to properly grieve for herself, and he bites his lip as he forces himself to come back to her. “It’s not their fault, but neither is it ours. You were a good girl. You _are_ a good girl. You’ve done nothing wrong, Juniper Malfoy.”

She pulls back to look up at him, a watery smile on her face as she touches his arm, bowing her head slightly. Draco feels his throat close up as he shakes his head in kind.

_We’ve been through too much. You must be so tired too._

“No, no. I’m nothing like you.”

_You did your best._

The words enter his mind. Her kindness tears through him, exposing his insides to the poisonous guilt threatening to overwhelm him.

She must have seen him torture innocent people and throw them into the dungeons; she had to have known what he did, all the lives he’s destroyed to save his own. And even before then, all the millions of little ways he’s hurt people just because he could. He was nothing more than a mad king’s pawn.

“I’m not good, I did everything wrong,” he counters, begging her to reconsider. Condemnation was so much easier to swallow than absolution.

But she sits there, tears against her cheeks as she shakes her head.

**_We_ ** _did our best. It was all we could do._

* * *

It’s another hour or so before Potter wakes. Draco places a hand on his elbow as he sits up, a phantom of a kiss against his cheek.

“Juniper says she’s decided to leave, but she didn’t want to go before saying goodbye first,” Draco says softly, as Juniper floats towards Potter, her little translucent hand clutching at his sleeve.

A soft smile graces Potter’s face as he sits up straighter, holding out his hands to her. “I’m so happy that I got to know you, Juniper. I’ll miss you so much.”

She smiles back. _You were so kind to me. Thank you. And you didn’t have to be, but thank you for being kind to my cousin as well._

“Really, now.” Draco drawls, and they share a signature Malfoy smirk. Draco frowns in contemplation, but eventually opens his arms and she rushes into them.

_I’ll miss you_.

“Take care of yourself,” Draco whispers back, his heart panging as the reality of the situation weighs on him, letting go of more family to somewhere he can’t follow.

_I’ll try._ She pulls back to smile at him, before tilting her head as she closes her eyes.

A shimmer of light claims her, and Draco is left holding onto air, a piece of his heart disappearing with her.

Potter comes up behind Draco, arms curling around his chest. Draco feels Potter’s soft hair against his cheek, and turns around just enough to brush a kiss against his lips, before resting his forehead against Potter’s.

**Two years later**

It’s over.

Or at least, it’s over for now. The Manor’s massive, and Draco has a feeling he could spend the rest of his life scouring the mansion and not find everything that is hidden within its walls. 

“This is _your_ house,” Harry repeated ad nauseum, anytime Draco lingered far too long on a cracked vase or a bust belonging to some ancestor he doesn’t even know the name of. “You get to decide what you do with it, not the other way around.”

The Manor is but an extension of his lineage, and it only takes a night of sleeping at Harry’s bright, airy house in Kent to realize he didn’t need to go to bed every night with the weight of the Malfoy name on his chest.

He could just _be_.

Draco has his house-elves move into the house with him and Harry, but occasionally sends them back to Manor to clean the ground floors and tidy up his mother’s quarters. He doesn’t count on it, but he keeps the Manor in a livable state in case Mother ever wanted to return.

“You’re not running away from anything.” Potter keeps telling him over and over, whenever Draco stares at the vague, empty letters he’s still getting from Mother or looks aghast at the state of the Manor’s gardens when he returns to visit. “You’re choosing to live on your own terms.” It feels a little like giving up, but for the moment, Draco listens to him.

Potter does not complete him. Potter barely has his own shit together.

  
  


But Harry Potter makes him happy. Indescribably so.

  
  


It is more than enough for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


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